


Something Like Us

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after Dean Smith and Sam Wesson hit the open road, Sam comes down with a nasty case of something supernatural. The only idea they've got to fix it? Tie Sam up and get cuddly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vailkagami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vailkagami/gifts).



Dean started to notice something was wrong on their eighth hunt, after they’d successfully vanquished a handful of spirits with the standard salt and burn drill and a vampire with a twenty-inch machete left behind in Sam’s apartment by the previous tenant. Dean seemed to get that something was seriously not right with Sam before he even did.

Sam had slowed and quieted. Dean first noticed it the previous night, but he'd chocked it up to Sam's being uncomfortable with the monster, a werewolf. Something had told him that Sam had a problem with killing the half-human lycanthrope—something they’d thought only existed in pre-teen fantasies. The world was apparently teeming with real, live, slobbery werewolves. Who knew, right?

The quiet continued into the next day, though, and when Sam sat hunched over his laptop at the small table in their room, hands on his head kneading into his temples, Dean couldn't not address it.

"Sam? You feeling alright?"

Sam removed his hands from his head and looked up at Dean, his lips pressed into a tight line. "It's nothing. Just a headache."

Dean couldn't shake the feeling that it was more than nothing, though, and he paid even closer attention to Sam thereout.

 

 

They hadn't found a new hunt yet, were still holed up in a crappy, too-small-for-the-both-of-them, second-floor Super 8 room with their computers and papers. It was a good thing they weren’t out working, though, because whatever was wrong with Sam was getting worse. His little nothing headache had morphed into full out shiver-sweats. Dean wasn’t a hypochondriac or anything, but seeing Sam like this was freaking him out. His momma had always said that you couldn’t be too careful when it came to the flu and the shivers.

When Dean crossed the space between their beds, sat down close to Sam and placed the back of his hand across Sam's forehead, the clammy-cold-moisture couldn't hide the underlying heat. A fever, and though Dean was no nurse, his momma had taught him right, and he knew it was bad.

"Don't say it's nothing." Dean didn't know Sam well—knew nothing more than the fact that they worked great together, that he was having the time of his fucking life hunting alongside Sam and his larger than life enthusiasm, and that there was some sort of strange undercurrent of a connection between them that ran hot and electric—but he didn't know Sam well enough to tell him what was good for him. So telling Sam to admit that he wasn't feeling well was hard for Dean. He didn't care, though, overstepped any unspoken boundaries, because he couldn't help Sam unless he'd admit that he needed it.

The way Sam's eyes could mimic an overgrown puppy's always made Dean do whatever it was Sam wanted. This time was no exception. The look he gave Dean was a plea for understanding. "It's not nothing." Sam looked down, broke the eye contact holding them together as if without it he could hide how he really felt. "I don't know what's wrong, Dean. I feel like fucking hell."

"That's the first step, Sammy. Now that you've admitted you're sick we'll get you the rest you need. You relax. I'm going to take care of everything."

"'Kay. But seriously, no more calling me Sammy. Where'd you even come up with that?"

"Sorry, Sammy, no can do. I know you secretly love it."

 

 

First thing was first, they had to find a better hotel, one that was more comfortable and had all necessary amenities. Dean had let Sam talk him into roughing it in discount rooms, to supposedly _save funds_ , but now was not the time for saving. On his way back from the nearest pharmacy, Dean stopped to get a room that was more his style, and once back to Sam, he took care of all the packing, since, thankfully, Sam was actually taking his advice and resting.

On the way over, Sam pressed his face against the window and muttered something about ghosts. Dean had this urge to ruffle his hand through Sam’s hair, like he’d maybe done it before, somehow.

“You look like shit,” he said instead.

Sam moaned against the glass. “Thanks. And when I eventually throw up, I’ll make sure to do it all over your fucking penny loafers.”

Dean grinned and drove two miles over the speed limit.

The weird thing was, he just could not understand why he cared so much about making sure Sam was comfortable. He’d only even known the guy for a few weeks, and all they’d done together was take out a vamp, a werewolf, and a handful of ghosts. So it was strange that he cared so much, and that he _didn’t_ care about what he’d given up to get here. Dean had felt rather certain about their future when he quit his job as Director of Sales and Marketing at Sandover’s, but he’d still had a few reservations. All of those reservations were relieved, though, after spending only a couple of weeks with Sam and falling into a familiar comfort he’d never really experienced with anyone else.

Still, though, he was kind of weirded out by how important it was to him to take care of the guy. They worked together like a well-oiled machine, sure, and though their quarters were too close, they made it work, and when they went a couple of days between jobs things were strangely relaxed and usually _fun_. None of that was any reason to really give a damn about the guy’s well-being, though, Dean thought. But he shook the feeling away, because he _did_ give a damn, and though he didn’t understand it, he was easygoing enough to roll with it.

 

 

The new room was most certainly preferable. Two queens, again, but this time they looked like they came out of a Crate & Barrel catalogue and not a homeless shelter, piled high with midnight-blue duvets, Egyptian cotton sheets, and hand-knit throws.

Sam made a not-so-quiet noise of disdain after taking in the new digs.

“Just because you don’t appreciate the finer things in life...” Dean started.

Sam faceplanted on the bed. It didn’t mean Dean couldn’t at least _try_ to take care of him properly.

When he opened the door to their room after returning from filling the ice bucket, Dean heard a loud slam.

It was Sam.

He was being thrown, _thrown_ , around the room. Dean first saw him right before his body slammed into the wall straight across from the door. Upon impact, Sam's body wilted substantially, the entire composition of bones and sinew and muscle and every other fiber seemed to shrink into the bang. Dean saw the collision, but the first thing he really noticed was how Sam's body sank to the floor, back scratching down the silver embossed wallpaper. When Sam hit the ground, his eyes drooped shut and his head fell forward, chest heaving.

"Sam!"

Sam pulled his head up, so slowly, and cracked his eyes to meet Dean's. He opened his mouth but not a word came out.

Dean started towards him, but just as he got close, Sam's body was hauled back up the wall. He’d already known that this wasn't occurring of Sam's own volition, but the look in Sam’s eyes made it even more clear. Sam was terrified.

Dean was, too. He had no idea, absolutely no idea what could be happening. It couldn’t be a spirit controlling Sam’s body, could it? They’d never read about anything like this. One thing was for sure, whatever it was, this was way above his and Sam’s pay grade.

As Dean reached forward, Sam was slung sideways along the wall, around the corner and over his bed. Pinned there, Sam appeared helpless, completely lacking any control of his body.

"Dean! You gotta tie me up. Something—" While his body flung further along the wall, over the bedside table then even further, over Dean's bed, Sam stopped talking. Too frightened or unable, Dean didn't know, but when the movement stopped, Sam's voice returned. "Something supernatural's got me, I know it. Quick. Quick, tie me up."

Sam was right, of course. If he continued to get wielded around the room like some puppet he was sure to end up hurt, to break a bone, or worse, concussed. Dean hadn't even unpacked yet, so he tore over to his garment carrier—he didn't know exactly what kind of clothes they'd need while on the road, so he’d packed thoroughly—and grabbed four of his ties. Fuck if they got wrinkled or ruined, he didn't have anything else.

Dean made quick work of hauling Sam down the wall, onto the bed, and then spreading his arms out to reach the posts. “Seriously, what’s happening? Like, what the fuck do you think is going on?”

Sam wasn’t in any condition to answer and instead mumbled, “Quick, just do it.”

"Well it’s a good thing we switched hotels, Sammy,” Dean said tightly. “Wasn't any way to tie you down in the old room."

Sam tried for a smile and mumbled, "Sammy."

Yeah, Dean didn't know what was with that either. He couldn't seem to stop it.

Both arms bound tight, Dean slid down the bed and grabbed ahold of Sam's leg. His calf muscles felt taut and firm under Dean's fingers, but they were spasming, and if Dean wasn't already freaked out by all of this, that was more than enough to worry him. As he moved to the second leg Dean continued to pay attention to the tiny twitches and shivers running through Sam. He tied the last knot then ran his hands up and down Sam's leg.

With Sam secured, Dean sat at the edge of the bed. “Okay, man. Can you speak? I need to know when this started. We _need_ to figure out what’s going on.”

“Don’t know, Dean.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Dean couldn’t help but be curt.

Sam shook his head as he settled into the bed. “I guess it started shortly before you got back. I felt worse, my head, but other than that, nothing strange.” Dean nodded as Sam continued, “I say we wait it out. What else can we do? We haven’t got any clue what’s happening.”

While Dean wanted to do something, _anything_ , to figure this out, Sam was right. He reached out to rub his hand across Sam’s trembling thigh and continued to nod.

He sat with Sam a while longer, spreading his hands along Sam's legs and his arms in some attempt to soothe. It was pointless, though. Dean was hopeless to help. He simply watched Sam writhe against his bindings, back arching violently against the bed every couple of minutes.

Once the spasms had slowed somewhat, Dean made his way into the bathroom to collect some towels. He soaked one in the icy water from the bucket and laid it across Sam's brow. Again, he was glad they'd switched rooms. Only high quality towels would do to calm Sammy's fevered skin.

He sat, still, just running his fingers up down, up down Sam's arms and then his chest, for hours. Finally, long after Dean had returned to the room, the spasms wreaking Sam's body dissipated. Dean removed the bindings and Sam moaned quietly.

Dean imagined the release felt good.

He slid down onto his back, and when Sam shifted to his side to face him, Dean said, "C'mere."

Sam did, immediately, and something stirred in Dean when Sam responded to him so readily. He didn’t really know what else to do, but Sam seemed to be game, so he lifted an arm up and around, splayed his hand across Sam's shoulder, and tugged him closer.

"Feeling better?"

"Mhmm." Within moments, Sam's breathing slowed and Dean knew he'd drifted to sleep.

“Thank goodness,” Dean whispered.

 

 

Dean didn't sleep. He was freaking out. He didn’t have any idea what had happened to Sam, or if it was going to happen again, or whether he should take him to a goddamn _hospital_. Though he was consumed by worry, he simply laid with Sam sprawled across his side, with Sam's hand across his stomach and Sam's chest contracting rhythmically against him.

Even though the moon was waning, it shone bright through the slight crack in the heavy drapes, and the alarm clock on the table read 4:14, telling him a couple of hours had crept by since Sam had passed out. He knew instantly when Sam woke, though, not only because his breathing lightened but also because the fingers on Dean's stomach started to rub soft circles through his shirt. Dean didn’t move except to shift slightly.

Sam turned his head and burrowed into the space where Dean's shoulder met his neck, wet-warm breaths ghosting across his skin. When Sam's lips touched down, so lightly, so tentatively, Dean knew _everything_ that was about to happen.

He'd always known, really. The first time Sam Wesson told Dean in the elevator that he dreamt about the two of them together, Dean had known.

But actually feeling the press of Sam's lips to his skin made everything so much more real, so much more _urgent_.

Dean reached out in the dark to find Sam’s face with his free hand, day-old stubble scratching under his thumb as he turned Sam towards him. Sam wasn't completely well, Dean was sure, but it was clear that he knew what he wanted, so Dean moved in and touched his lips to Sam's. Sam's lips were dry, but warm and smooth, and they gave when Dean pressed forward.

Dean broke the kiss, tipping his head back uncertainly. "You sure?"

"Sure as I've been since the first time I saw you at Sandover's."

Which was exactly as sure as Dean was, so he leaned back in. This time the kiss wasn't gentle at all, not tentative in the least, as both Dean and Sam lunged into it with all of the heat that had been building up between them for weeks.

Dean had never been with a guy before—had never even been interested before meeting Sam—and so far it was unlike anything he could've imagined. He was surprised by how it felt to have a hard body under his, no soft lips or softer curves, but he was even more surprised by how the stiff-solid feel of Sam got him going. Both his gut and his dick went from zero to full-speed in mere moments.

Sam’s low groan confirmed that Sam was as interested as Dean was, and Sam grinding his dick upwards into Dean served as even further verification. "Yeah, Dean. Don't stop."

So, of course, he didn't.

All too soon, though, the multiple-cotton-layer barrier was more than Dean could stand. He levered off of Sam, slipped out of his shirt, and threw it off to one side. Totally unlike himself to just throw clothes away, yes, but he was more than a little distracted by the need to get naked, and to get _Sam_ naked, as quickly as possible.

He made fast work of Sam’s overshirt before crawling down to get at his pants. While he tugged them down unceremoniously, Sam lifted and removed his tee and then leaned forward to bring Dean back to him. His hands, his motherfucking _gigantic_ hands that were way more calloused than anyone's working in tech support had any right to be, spanned Dean's back and pulled until they were chest to chest and he could barely squeeze a hand between them to undo Dean's jeans. He managed, though, and reached in and down to grab ahold of Dean's dick.

It had been too long, too damn long, since Dean had gotten off with anyone other than himself, and too long since he'd first felt the urge to stop the elevator between floors and fuck Sam into the wall. So Sam's hand wrapping around him, tugging gently and twisting on every other pull, occasionally lifting and swiping a rough thumb over his sensitive slit, was almost too much to take. If Sam didn't slow down, if _he_ didn't slow Sam down, this whole venture was going to be over far too quickly.

Dean knew just how he could slow things down, and though it was almost physically impossible to pull himself away, he did it. He leaned into Sam and fastened his teeth to his neck, lightly, moving lower, slowly, with little nips to salty-hot skin. Down and down further, he bit and licked his way down Sam's body, soothing the places where he bit too hard. He distracted Sam enough by sucking on a nipple and thumbing at the other, that Sam let go of him and let him slide back even further, which was exactly where Dean needed to be in order to get the best part of Sam in his mouth.

Almost immediately after Dean finally felt the weight of Sam's cock on his tongue and the musk-bitter-delicious taste filled his senses, Sam grabbed ahold of his shoulders and pulled him off. "Dean."

He met Sam's eyes, Sam's hand on his jaw forcing him to focus his attention. Sam’s eyes were so wide, and so dark, and even though this thing between them was only just beginning, Dean knew he didn't stand a chance in hell of ever giving it up.

"Want you to tie me up again," Sam said.

" _Fuck_ , Sammy."

"Do it, Dean. Want you to."

Though it was difficult to pull away, Dean slid off of Sam and the bed to retrieve the ties he'd hung up in the closet on the provided wooden hangers. Before climbing back onto the bed, Dean removed his pants with one hand, toeing out of them awkwardly as fuck and not even worrying about what state they ended up in. He was so very glad that he finally got around to it, though, because crawling back up and over Sam with the ability to feel Sam's legs under his was phenomenal and so worth however stupid he’d looked.

He crawled up Sam's body and wrapped the first tie around one wrist, pulling it taut and knotting it tight to the post. It reminded him of earlier, but he pushed that thought away. As he slid over to the other wrist, he swore he heard Sam growl, quiet and low, and Dean knew Sam was hot for him, for _this_ , but he'd had no idea just how into the kink Sam was. This was something he could get used to.

Had Dean just admitted to himself that he'd never be able to quit this thing with Sam? Because that was the goddamn truth.

Another cinch of silk and Sam was completely bound.

And Dean had thought he was turned on before, but this—Sam splayed out for Dean all glass-smooth, tanned skin and hard-as-ice muscle—was almost too much for Dean to bear. His dick jumped just from taking in the sight.

His hands didn't stop roaming over Sam's body, not ever, and when he made it down and under to squeeze Sam's firm-soft ass Sam moaned, "Oh, yeah."

Dean was only planning on grabbing that ass to push Sam's cock up and back into his mouth, but if Sam wanted him to explore the area further, Dean wasn’t going to deny him. He squeezed harder and lowered himself down onto the bed, fabric soft under his knees, scooching back to get in close.

Although he wasn’t exactly familiar with where to go from here, Dean wasn’t even worried. He was confident that his many skill sets were more than enough to get the job done, so he bent down and in, working his way between Sam’s thighs and licking out, up then down, and again.

"Yes, Dean. _Yes_ ," Sam moaned as Dean's tongue fluttered across his puckered-tight hole. Dean was right. He _could_ do this.

He continued to probe further, strongest muscle of his body breaching Sam. The earth-strong taste and scent was heady, and Dean surged forward full-tilt. He licked up into Sam faster and harder, swirling and tilting his tongue, in and out, back and forth, until he just had to _feel_ with his own fingers exactly what his mouth had gotten to taste.

He lowered his palms and brought his thumbs up, sinking deep, first with one and then the other.

"Oh god. Oh fuck." Sam squirmed but then pushed down into Dean, slutty for it.

His tongue still buried in Sam's ass alongside his fingers, Dean gave just a few more swipes, licked his way around his thumbs, deep as he could, before he pulled back. The blissed out look on Sam's face was exactly everything that Dean had needed to see.

When he looked down to where his fingers were disappearing into Sam’s ass, he almost came. _Christ_. Sam's hole was opening up around him, pinching and pulling tight against him, but the words coming out of Sam’s mouth made it clear that he wasn't against this at all.

"More. Fucking— _Fuck_ , Dean, _more_."

Dean eased his thumbs out, instantly replacing them with three of his fingers, spit-slick, Sam’s body eager for it. Sam pulled at the ties around his wrists, every muscle in his arms flexing and bunching in pleasure-pain against the invasion.

Dean pressed his mouth to Sam’s ankle. "Gonna fuck this ass, Sammy."

Sam opened his eyes to look at Dean and use them to beg. "Please."

Dean crawled his way up Sam’s body again and fucked into Sam's mouth with his tongue, just to taste, though, because he quickly tore it away and placed his hand in Sam's face. Sam understood, licking out with his tongue to lap at Dean's fingers and then his palm, tasting where those fingers had just been and slicking Dean up further.

Dean ran his spit-wet hand over his dick swiftly, so anxious to keep this going, so anxious to give them both what they'd been wanting, needing, for what felt like _forever_ and not just a few weeks.

Lining their bodies up was simple, because Sam's hole, all fucked out already, was right there and waiting for Dean's dick. What little give Sam had in the ties that bound him pulled taut when he strained against them, shifting his entire body down to take Dean in.

"Jesus _fuck_." Dean couldn't manage anything else.

After the shock of Sam wrapped tight-hot around his cock head had diminished some, he inched forward, slowly, so slowly, deeper and deeper still, until his balls met the firm round of Sam's ass. Dean's arms gave out and he collapsed forward. He reached up and under to grab Sam's shoulders while he eased out of him, inch by inch.

The closeness, the warm slide of their chests together and Sam's breath hot-damp on his cheek, only exacerbated the physical sensations overloading Dean’s body.

"Give it to me, Dean." Sam's voice was fucking wrecked, strung out and strained, already. "Want it. Want to take it all."

Dean couldn't speak, no more words from him and that was perfect, because he was fine with letting Sam call the shots. He could give it to him, though, if that’s what Sam wanted. So he did, thrusting frenzy-fast into Sam while he gripped onto him with all he had.

While Dean had loved the feel of Sam's hands on him, there sure as hell was something to having Sam tied up, he thought deliriously, pressing his face into Sam's neck. Even if Sam was telling Dean what he wanted and how he wanted it, he couldn't touch, which meant it was all Dean's to _give_.

He could do that. He pounded into Sam, frantic, harder and harder, until he thought they were both bound to combust from the sheer friction between them.

When Dean couldn't give it to Sam any harder, he realized just exactly what the best thing to give Sam would be. One, two, three more thrusts, and Dean pulled out.

"Dean? Wha—"

The loss of slick-heat was only momentarily distracting, because Dean was immediately leaning down over Sam, sucking Sam's cock into his mouth and bobbing up down, up and then down, while at the same time sliding his hand between his legs to slip a finger inside himself. It was unfamiliar, foreign, but what Dean imagined was a great prelude for what was to come.

He swallowed Sam down as deep as he could, making sure to slick both of them up well, and then he crawled over Sam’s body and into place.

If Sam had been surprised before, that was nothing compared to what he was now. The blow job had worked to distract him, and before Sam had any idea what was happening, Dean sank down onto his dick. Deeper, Dean pushed down onto Sam, and deeper still, until the fire-burn consumed him and he could do nothing but sit on Sam's dick and wait.

Sam thrashed against the bindings, not like earlier when his body had been flung around the bed against his will, though. Now, he thrashed and pulled of his own accord, trying desperately to get his hands on Dean.

"Sam."

Sam slowed and focused, and he saw that Dean was all right. It had been only moments, but the burn was simmering, dissipating, being replaced with an amazing sense of so-full and so-right.

Dean hadn't known that this was what he wanted, hadn't ever even considered it, but, here and now and on top of Sam Wesson, he couldn't fathom how he'd held out this long. Leaning forward, Dean caught Sam's bottom lip between his own as he pulled up and off. He rolled Sam's lip back and forth, soft bite of teeth into flesh, as he sank back down. Then again and again and again, until harder-faster was all he could think.

Dean needed to breathe, just for a second. He levered off of Sam, sliding his hands up onto Sam's chest as he steadied himself. And _Christ_ , this new angle was what this was all about. When Dean arched his back, Sam finally let go, relaxing into the duvet and letting Dean take full control.

Sam let his body go lax and sank deeper into the bed. "Oh yeah, Dean. Ride me. Just like that."

"Never want to stop."

"Never—oh _fuck_. Never want you to."

They'd both been going too hard too hot too fast, and before either of them were ready, Dean lost all semblance of control. Grinding down on Sam, his dick angry-red and weeping between them, bouncing against his stomach, Dean went too deep too much. The next thing he knew, his orgasm shot hot through him without even touching his dick, and he was lost, pure pleasure coursing through his veins and cutting off any sense of reality. He could feel Sam’s thighs trembling beneath him, his dick hard in Dean, but the sensations were overwhelmed by the flood of release and muscle clench-grip euphoria coursing through his dick and around Sam's.

Sam shouted his release and it brought Dean back. The warm, rich feeling of Sam coming inside of him was even better than his own orgasm, and Sam’s entire body shuddering below him and _in_ him vastly improving his own aftershocks.

Spent completely, Dean collapsed with his face pressed to the come-sweat slickness covering Sam’s chest. Sam was about ten thousand times firmer than the world's firmest mattress, but as far as Dean was concerned, he provided the best sleeping surface available.

"A little help?" Dean could feel the reverberations of Sam's laugh jostle through his own chest.

"Oh, yeah. Almost forgot."

He made quick work of the knots, fingers shaking, Sam shifting restlessly under him. Immediately after he was released, Sam up and tackled Dean into the bed, pressing him deep down and smoothly under the covers.

It appeared that Sam was back to himself, one hundred percent healthy. Dean worried a little, as he snuggled up against Sam, under his arm. He was happy that Sam was feeling better, of course, but they still didn't know what had been wrong with him in the first place, and they didn't know _how_ he’d gotten better. It was all just a little disconcerting.

He let it go, though, because Sam's chest for a pillow and his hand brushing up, down, back and forth Dean's side was too much of a comfort to allow any room for worry.

 

 

It was midday when Dean woke. Sure it was late as hell, but having not fallen asleep until dawn, it was certainly understandable. He woke to the settling of a body next to him on the bed, which he assumed was Sam. But when he opened his eyes he was sorely surprised to see that it was not Sam at all, but Mr. Adler, his old boss. In his motel room. On his bed.

Still, the first thing out of Dean's mouth was, "Sam?"

He sat, tugging sheets around himself. Mr. Adler snugged his hands behind his head and looked pleased. "Sam and his problems aren't what you need to worry about right now, Dean."

"You're right. What I'm really worried about is why the hell you're here right now. I mean, no offense intended, Mr. Adler, but this is my _bed_."

Mr. Adler shook his head and laughed. "Nonsense, Dean. You haven't had a bed to call your own your entire life."

It sounded like a pointed comment, but for the life of him, Dean couldn’t figure it out. Of course he'd had beds. He had a Tempurpedic back home in his high-rise apartment. Come to think of it, what did Mr. Adler mean about not having to worry about Sam and his _problems_? How could he possibly know about the unknown supernatural sickness that’d had Sam in its grasp?

"Don't think I don't understand that you're confused, Dean. You're wondering why I'm here, you're wondering what I know and how I know it. Well, don't. I apologize for getting a little caught up with important business upstairs, but now I'm here to tell you that this has gone on long enough and that it's time I congratulate you. So, congratulations, Dean." The confusion on Dean's face must have been clear as day, because Mr. Adler continued, "You've figured it out. You're a hunter—you always have been and always will be."

Dean didn't know what to expect when Mr. Adler reached across the too-small space between them and touched a finger to his forehead, but it wasn't to be zapped back to reality.

 _Reality_. He’d thought he had been in it. Clearly, though, he’d been wrong.

Instantaneously, everything, _everything_ , came rushing back. Dean knew exactly who he was and what he did and who was sitting across from him.

"You're an—"

"I am. Name's Zachariah."

"And I'm—"

"You're Dean Winchester, son of John and Mary and brother to Sam."

At the mere mention of Sam, Dean flushed. The heat spread up and across his bare chest all the way into his neck and cheeks.

Zachariah just shook his head. "Not to worry, Dean. Nothing you've done has changed anything. You're still Michael's sword, you're still his vessel, and that's what this entire exercise should’ve taught you." He quirked his lips, snide motherfucker that he was. Dean knew there was something he hadn’t liked about the guy when he’d thought he was his boss, and he sure as hell wasn’t any more fond of him now. "Any indiscretions that occurred during this experiment, well, they'll just stay our little secret—and Sam's."

Dean was pretty sure he’d never been more embarrassed. Getting caught by an angel with his pants down, and not after just any lay, but after fucking his brother—his _brother_? Definitely not something to be proud of.

Right then, the door to the hotel room opened and Sam walked in. Dean hadn't known him long—no wait, he'd always known him—whatever, either way, he could read Sammy clear as day. The look on Sam's face made it clear that he'd been zapped back to reality too, and that their _indiscretions_ had hit him hard. Whether those actions had hit Sam in a way that meant regret or satiation wasn't entirely clear to Dean, though, and the fact that it might just be the latter had Dean flushing all over again.

Zachariah didn't care for small talk, and he didn't care that he'd completely flipped their lives upside down. "So think about all of this, Dean. You have got to understand now, that helping us win this war is exactly what you should be doing."

The sudden flutter-rush of air marking the angel's disappearance was something Dean would never get used to, but he was sure as hell glad Zachariah had left.

He looked over to Sam, to where he was still stuck in the doorway, and when their eyes met, an agreement was reached. This thing that happened between them had happened, and it wasn’t something that needed to be discussed. Ever.

 

 

They abandoned the Prius immediately. Dean had never felt comfortable in it, not really, hadn't been able to shake the sense of wrong. Now, though, with 390 horse under the hood and Sam, Sam _Winchester_ , at his side, things were back to normal.

“None of that stuff, uh—” Dean started.

Sam turned from where he’d been staring out the window, goofy grin on his face and legs stretched out, ready to be back on the road. “Yeah, totally. Of course, man.”

Dean could be an awkward son of a bitch when it came to the touchy-feely stuff, he knew that. He just wasn’t good at talking about stuff. So if Dean didn't swat Sam's hand away when he reached across the bench and splayed it across Dean's thigh, it wasn't like he was too concerned. He couldn’t actually hide anything from Sam anyway.

After covering about a hundred miles, Dean couldn’t resist. “Never would’ve figured you for the kinky shit, Sammy.”

Sam used the hand that had been rubbing soft circles up and down Dean’s inseam to smack him. “God, Dean. Just shut up.”

 

the end


End file.
